Naive
by justtestingmyboundaries
Summary: One - shot ExA Eragon contemplates his emotions, analyzing them to a high degree. But when he comes face to face with the love of his life, he realizes no measure of analyzation matters. Arya finally understands the conflictling feelings in her heart.


Naïve

There was something to be said about the naivety of men. Some last proof of ignorance of their part, and it was not just human men, it served among humans, elves, dwarves, and Urgals, and even, in a different part, among the dragons and other animals of less intelligent stature.

This naivety clung to the Varden's Rider as dew on the forest green leaves after a nice, long shower of water falling from the skies. He was naïve to believe that losing those one loved would get easier as the numbers escalated. But it was not so for him. Instead of his heart becoming numb to the pain, or blocking it off as the brain did to the pain sensors shooting through his body, the bloody mass of beating chunk of muscle was only beaten down farther and farther till the pain only worsened.

And even more dreadful was the fact that the heart's pain could only be lessened by some happy thought, yet the only people capable of such happy thoughts on his part were a rather morbidly humored Sapphire dragon named Saphira who constantly poked fun at the dismal surroundings, or an elven princess who wallowed so deeply in her own sorrow she had forgotten how to smile without looking sinister. That was the word for it, sinister. Sinister, not as in evil, but as in a failed attempt to actually be comforting to herself, let alone someone else. It was almost as if she practiced different smiles and simply chose the face that looked the best and put it on in situations where she knew normal people would actually smile.

He could almost laugh at his own joke had it not been for the notion that it was more possible than he knew. Perhaps even her attempts to smile would be lost in the face of this tragedy, and for him, well for the mighty Eragon Shadeslayer, he would start practicing smiling, laughing, and perhaps even a consoling face to hide the truth that he cared about nothing at that point. It was true, the Rider of the Varden, leader of many, heartthrob of the Varden women, shunned by the only woman he loved (but he would never tell them that), brother in honor of the late King Hrothgar's clan, Rider of Saphira, Bane of Razac, and last Free Rider of Alagaesia, found it difficult to care about anything anymore.

His reasons for fighting were so barred, marred, and broken that he simply reduced himself to fight, be strong, and prove something in public, and silence in private. He was a showman, nothing more than a common entertainer to the people. Or at least that was what he should have been. Acting was quickly becoming a forte for him, perhaps if the Riders never had a chance to blossom, he would pursue a career with an acting troupe. His show was killing, pounding, and destroying, and his payment were the Varden advances in this war.

Glancing around his room, he realized his eyes had finally become accustomed to the darkness. His meager surroundings would have been baffling for a performer of his caliber, but it ensured his life of material goods remained highly uncomplicated. The darkness outside his tent coupled with the silence gave him notice that no one wandered the grounds now. They feared the premonitions of the night, the superstitions of dark monsters catching the children and eating them, or the much more real possibility of Empire scouts looking for escapees, children or not. The Rider had not much to worry about, his ability in magic and using it without words were proficient enough that he could easily bring down a small scout party and call for Saphira to come get him.

Pulling the first tunic out of his sack, he placed the white material over and gave a sinister smile, in this case evil sinister, at his ghost like appearance. Maybe the Varden needed a ghost of a dead soldier walking their grounds. The white tunic was of elven make, no doubt shinier than others in the night, he would be a beacon on the night grounds.

Saphira was fast asleep next to the tent, her days besides pestering him to see the sun were occupied with sending away his well wishers and hunting for herself. Come to think of it, Eragon had not seen the sun in three days, and he had not seen a person on five. Feinster was small, strong, loyal place, but those were the worst. The leader had to taken down for the morale of the soldiers to stop, it was tedious at times. Ensuring no one was around him, the Rider took a gently seat on the ground and watched the river flow over the nooks and crevices created by the stones and the bank.

Flowing water…the sound of it turned his mind peaceful, as if he had some underlying connection with water and its properties. There were some days when the Rider sought the river's comfort, or dreamed of flying over the ocean and away forever. But alas, it was not to be, and so he settled for this particular compromise, the flowing water.

He was truly naïve to think the pain would ever start to ebb away so soon. The death of his father was fresh in his mind, his uncle Garrow, and now his masters. Hrothgar, Ajihad, all those men lost in battle. All for him. Angela predicted a battle would be raged around him, but he did not understand the word rage until now. His dreams turned into nightmares. He was standing, a cold fearsome look in his eyes, and around him the soldiers laid their lives for him against the stronger, better, faster Empire soldiers, and in front was the King, watching in his own triumph that the Varden had lost. And he remained defiant, the war would end had Eragon simple waltzed in the castle and demand a duel with the king. Well surely end for him, the Rider's death was particularly imminent in the possible outcomes of such an endeavor.

Perhaps death would be peaceful compared to his life. Was that even a question? Torture would be peaceful compared to this life. Knowing pain, feeling it raked across your body, that was tolerable. If he knew what was happening, he would prepare for it, but this, this was idiotic. His heart was stabbed, and then healed, and then stabbed again at random intervals. How could he defend against an enemy so particular, yet so stealthy? It was impossible.

_Snap. _

Using his elven speed, Eragon rose from his sitting position, hand at the base of a now drawn flaming sword. His hand was ready poised for a blocking while the cool, steady tip of his sword rested on the intruder's neck.

"You are getting faster. I should have known."

Arya…the elven princess and the only one who had not died on him yet, besides his cousin. Lowering the sword, the Rider sheathed it, pretending her presence did not wreck havoc on his bleeding soul.

"What were you thinking of?"

Her melodious voice caressed his ears, making him believe, even for one second she actually cared of what he was thinking of.

"Does it matter?"

An arched eyebrow, "Of course it does."

He gave her his practiced smile, one she clearly deciphered as such, and continued.

"Arya svit-kona, the only reason why it would matter is if you thought the point of discussion you are about to have with me is less important than what I am thinking of. If it was, I am positive you would leave, and if it was not, I am positive that you would converse on a matter of your interest. And so I say that what I am thinking of has no matter, and therefore you can proceed in a guilt free manner to discuss whatever you wish to."

Silence greeted his rather brusque and rude response.

"You speak like an elf."

"Given the correct circumstances, anyone can learn to act like their surroundings."

More silence, perhaps this would be customary in their discussions from now on.

"You have grown."

Or maybe short statements of observation would carry their conversation.

"My growth is not what is in question. What have you sought me out for Arya svit-kona?"

"I wanted to apologize."

This he was not expecting. "Apologize for what?"

"My lack of responsiveness these past few days."

What was she talking about? It would take a really brave man to carry on a conversation without knowing exactly what the details were, especially when she was apologizing. And he was not feeling particularly brave, he did not learn that yet in his acting experience.

"Arya svit-kona, forgive me, but what are you speaking of?" His voice softened slightly, it did not matter she was ripping his heart through, what only mattered was her doubts being eased.

Her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes a bit pleading with him.

"The last days, Eragon. Someone knocked at my tent, I assumed it was you, here to check if I had been alright. I was not myself at the moment so I did not answer the summons."

He would have laughed had the situation not been so serious.

"Forgive me Arya, but I must inform you that it was not me that knocking on your wooden plank that day, or any day in these past week or so. I have not left my tent, except in the dead of night these past few days. I do not know who it was who you ignored, but it certainly was not me."

Her eyes were confused, "And you never came to my tent."

"No, I never left my own at an etiquette time."

"Not even passed by."

"No, were you expecting me to?"

"Well…I suppose not."

"Is this all you wanted to discuss Arya svit-kona?"

"No."

"Very well."

He remained seated, not pressuring her. If he was not imagining it, there seemed to be hint of disappointment in her voice. If he had done such a thing, he would expect her anger, not disappointment. Then again, it was late, and the night could do wonders when hiding the face with the black darkness.

"Eragon-" Her lack of a formality from her surprised him, but he quickly hid it for the displeasure at her stopping.

"Eragon, I have found myself questioning what I believe in, what I fight for as of late."

She looked down, obviously uneasy at her lack of resolve, being so bare to him.

"At first it was revenge against my mother, then duty as an Alagaesian, and it was, until some time ago, revenge for my lost companions, Faolin and Glenwing." A wad of tears leaked from both emerald orbs, but he made no move to comfort her, he feared she would not continue.

It was strange, he admitted not caring about anything, now seemed to care about every insignificant detail pertaining to the elf next him. He cared neither for proper food or water, or even the daylight, yet here he was, careful to tread softly on her boundaries for fear that she simply might stop…_speaking. _What absurdity? Suddenly his own life becomes a small detail and a small detail in her life consumes his waking attention. Love could only be the proper explanation, but even that was out of his reach. It was a curse, he was sentenced to feel only the strongest of emotions. Love, anger, hatred, and yet all of them served to the strongest emotion of them all…pure, simple, unadulterated, feral, primal pain.

Her hand moved on the grass, as if searching for something in the short strands.

"And now my reasons have changed again. I could not place it before, but it seems that I now fight for the safety of that I hold dear, the safety for those I love, and when that reason seemed sound, I could not place whom I loved so dearly to keep myself in this state. It was not my mother, never her, and I do not have anyone else…except you."

His eyes shot to hers, alarmed at what she was saying. Her own emerald orbs found his in the darkness, seeking for their beacons of hope. Losing its neutrality completely, her voice sounded over the silence once more.

"The only motivation I have left in me is the knowledge that you still love something in this world, and I love you for it. I know the pain I have caused you has been insufferable, but I strongly wish that we expand on this relationship if your feelings have not been lost."

The Rider could not speak, or even think, or do anything for that matter besides chastise his head for being unable to think of any coherent thought except that he was an utter idiot.

"Forgive me Arya svit-kona, I am rather taken aback by the revelations."

Disappointment leaked through her voice, a hinge of tears displaying as well, "I understand it was not the best of times, and times have changed." She moved to get up.

"No, wait! I have not even said anything yet."

He stood up, catching her hand before she left him standing alone near the river.

"Lost? You believed my feelings to be lost."

She bit her lip unsurely, "I did not know what else to think. You were _comfortable_ around me, ignored me, treated me like those other women in the council, nothing special, like an acquaintance of yours. I slowly began to believe that you lost your feelings for me."

Confidence in his voice, pure elation that he had finally found some purpose in his life, he smiled, a true smile, one that reflected the moon in his eyes, and the happiness in his heart. The pain, the anger, the hatred, he could take that as long as the love in his heart burned strongly.

"Arya, I was not comfortable around you. The only reason why I stared at any place but you is because I was afraid you would find me looking at you. I have never treated you normally, I treat everyone else as strangers, only you as a friend."

Taking her hands in his, he stood in front of her, a smile on his features. "My feelings for you were never lost. It was never a leaf blown in the wind, it was a mountain, standing straight and tall even when the worst of storms threatened to tear the surroundings down. I have always loved you Arya, I was merely able to hid it better."

He felt her release of breath; one he doubted even she knew she was holding. Slowly, but surely, he felt her hot breath come closer and closer till the distance between their lips was evaporated. Slowly moving her lips over his, she coaxed him into opening for her, her hands running through his hair, drawing him closer. Minutes later, how long neither knew, she drew away, a smile, a true smile, one natural to her features etched on her face. And she stepped closer to him, her arms encircling his waist, and his own enveloping her lithe body. Holding her close, he placed a kiss on her temple, whispering that he loved her.

Yet it was a war, and tender moments were brief. They made their way back to her tent, departing with a chaste kiss. He strolled back to his own tent, a skip in his step he did not know of. Slipping through the flap, the Rider readied himself for sleep, his nightmares chased away by the love in his heart.

Naïve, perhaps he was, but the beautiful thing of being naïve is that someone or the other came along and enforced your beliefs. The pain did ebb away, his heart returned to its normal beating, and he was finally starting to care again.


End file.
